


Gifts

by prussianblue7



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Autistic Caleb Widogast, Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Episode: c02e001 Curious Beginnings, Episode: c02e018 Whispers of War, Episode: c02e049 A Game of Names, F/M, caleb's backstory and all the trigger warnings that go with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17302001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussianblue7/pseuds/prussianblue7
Summary: When he is nine years old, Caleb discovers he has a gift. This is what comes after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for a while because I really wanted to explore Caleb's backstory from beginning to end through his eyes. This fic is finished so I'll probably edit and update every couple of days. Constructive criticism is welcome and encouraged. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb discovers an affinity for magic.

“Your fire is a gift!” everyone tells him the first time flames sputter from his hands. They congratulate him on his first bit of real magic, how smart he is, how talented, and for a week or two, he is the pride of Blumenthal. Bren basks in the praise. He knows he is clever and learns quickly and remembers more than most people, but this is the first time he feels he has a talent that is entirely unique and special.

 

And the fire really is a gift. It helps keep his family warmer than they usually are in the cold, snowy winters that come with their Northern location. It is useful for cooking food or lighting torches or any other number of small things. Most of all, it is fun. Bren likes the way heat flickers under his skin. He likes that the family cat always sleeps curled up on his chest. He likes doing tricks for the younger children of the village, sending little bolts of fire to knock buckets off of a fence and melting drawings into freshly fallen snow.

 

Sensing his passion, his parents give him three thick, leather-bound books as a gift for his tenth birthday. The first is a book of Zemnian fairy tales with beautiful illustrations, the second is empty except for lined pages, but has a cover beautifully designed with swirling patterns that seemed to drift across the leather like smoke, and the third is filled with runes and spells-- books that had probably cost them months worth of savings to buy. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he embraces his parents and thanks them over and over, chest full to bursting with love and happiness. This, more than fire, he thinks, is the greatest gift he has ever received.

 

...

 

The next few years pass quickly. Bren learns to do more than just conjure fire. Now, he can create little dancing lights to keep their house bright even late at night, or sometimes he can create a small illusion that is supposed to change his appearance but for some reason only changes the color of his hands at the moment, and, though he can’t figure out how to cast the spell yet and definitely can’t afford the components, he was working on translating a spell for finding a familiar. He hopes to attend the Soltryce Academy so he can learn even more, but he knows that it is unlikely, considering the cost of tuition.

 

His parents know of his wish, but they also know the expense. They work hard, but the money they make is barely enough to get them through a winter, much less send him to the best school in the Empire. Still, as he approaches his fifteenth birthday, Bren meticulously fills out the application in the hopes that the large sum of money will somehow magically appear. 

 

There are two other hopefuls in Blumenthal. He talks to Eodwulf sometimes at festivals and he vaguely knows of a blonde girl named Astrid, but he doesn’t know either of them very well, having always preferred to stay inside and read rather than play with children his own age. He does, however, know that are both interested in magic and attending the academy. He also knows that Eodwulf had recently received a decently large inheritance from a deceased relative in Rexxentrum, and could now actually afford to go, should he be accepted. Bren can’t help being a little jealous at not having received such a gift.

  
  


Bren’s birthday falls shortly before the planting season, which means that only a few weeks after his family’s small birthday celebration, there is a much larger, village-wide festival celebrating the coming of spring. There is a large potluck dinner at the center of town, a display of some of the art projects (quilts, and rugs, and wood carvings mostly) that people had completed over the long winter months, and a few small games for the younger children. There is the usual bustle of catching up and conversations. His parents’ friends ask him what he is reading at the moment (a book on architecture in Rexxentrum), or if he is learning any new languages (he has a pretty good grasp on Common at this point, although he still gets his tenses mixed up sometimes), or if he is still hoping to go to the Academy this fall (yes, but he still doesn’t have the money). This last question is always accompanied by a gleam of excitement in the eye of the asker and the edge of a mischievous smirk, but he isn’t sure why.

 

As dinner is being cleaned up, the village’s lawmaster, Edmund Ziegler, whistles for everyone’s attention. This is not uncommon, as Lawmaster Ziegler usually delivers news and announcements for the coming season towards the end of each festival, but for some reason Bren’s skin crawls with anticipation. There are the usual things-- the current state of the Empire’s relations with Xhorrhas, the delegations of tasks for the planting season, an announcement that the Müllers are expecting a child this Summer. Then, Lawmaster Ziegler pauses before continuing,

 

“And finally, as with every spring, we must celebrate new beginnings and the potential within every one of us, especially within our youth. Astrid, Eodwulf, Bren-- would you mind joining me?” Bren plays with the frayed edges of his sleeve anxiously, but makes his way to the center of the village square. He notes Astrid and Eodwulf doing the same, both looking equally perplexed. The crowd murmurs with anticipation. Lawmaster Ziegler cheerfully pulls them in towards the raised center of the square.

 

“This is our gift to you. A gift of potential.” With that, he steps to the side to allow Mr. Weiss, the village’s banker, to approach. The banker carries with him three small, wooden chests. With a grin, he opens one to reveal a pile of shimmering gold coins, more than Bren has ever seen in one place in his life.

 

“From everyone in Blumenthal, we hope you enjoy the Academy!” Lawmaster Ziegler reaches out to ruffle his hair, and Bren bursts into tears. He will long remember this as the best night of his life.

...

 

Bren spends the next few months preparing for the Academy. He finishes his application with an essay on how the translation of spells into various languages can change their meaning and effects. Upon completing it he spends several days in an anxious crisis worrying that his application isn’t good enough, that nobody will pay attention to a peasant boy from a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, that all the time and money the village has spent on him will be for nothing before his mother finally snaps and makes him send it in. Now, all he can do is wait.

 

The letter arrives two months before the school term is due to start. It is in a cream envelope with a fancy red wax seal on the front and his name neatly written in expensive-looking blue ink. Bren is so anxious that he can’t stop shaking and he nearly sets the paper on fire before he can read it. He reads the letter three times before the words finally sink in.

 

_ Mr. Bren Ermendrud, _

 

_ I am pleased to offer you a place at the Soltryce Academy. After reviewing your application and supporting documents, we have determined that you are exactly the kind of student that we are eager to include in our school. _

 

_ Congratulations and best regards, _

_ Archmage Zivan Margolin, Headmaster and Archmage of Conscription _

 

“Well?” his mother asks, almost as anxious as he is.

 

Bren’s response is barely audible, “I did it. I got in.”

 

His mother picks him up and squeezes him so hard he can barely breathe, laughing and crying with pure joy. His father comes over and ruffles his hair, wearing the biggest smile Bren has ever seen.

 

“Our boy going to a big, fancy school in Rexxentrum. Who would have thought?”

 

...

 

Both his parents cry on the day he leaves for school, but they are smiling as they kiss him goodbye and send him off with Astrid and Eodwulf at his side. For the first time in his life, Bren leaves the borders of his home town.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb attends the Soltryce Academy.

Rexxentrum is bigger than anything Bren could ever have imagined. Buildings tower over cobbled streets lined with all manner of shops and houses and lit with tiny magical lanterns. There are hundreds of people here, more on each block than in the entirety of Blumenthal, maybe even more than in the entire Zemni Fields. And the  _ noise _ . There are hawkers shouting, horse hooves pattering across the cobblestones, children play-fighting with wooden swords outside a house. Bren pulls his hood up in an attempt to block out the noise and color that is suddenly too much to comprehend. It only sort of works, but at least he can function enough to keep walking in the hopes of finding some quieter, more solitary place later. Yet the moment the academy comes into view, the rest of the world disappears.

 

The academy has a formidable presence-- looming and tall and gleaming white. The corners are penned by towers connected to each other with enclosed bridges, surrounding the broad dome in the center. The doors swing open, seemingly of their own volition, to admit the trio and their escort into the vast entrance hall. Bren can  _ feel _ the magic seeping from every corner-- the glowing chandeliers decorating the ceiling, the white, rune-carved stones that are embedded in the walls-- even the silverware they use at dinner that night has enough magic to make his nose itch. The presence of it is exhilarating and Bren is certain, for the first time in his life, that he is in the right place.

 

Today is the mark of a lot of “firsts” for Bren. It is his first time leaving home. His first time being in a big city. His first day at the Soltryce Academy. Yet strangely, the “first” that Bren finds most impressive is his first dinner at the Academy. In Blumenthal, there was usually barely enough food left to last a year, and not enough money to afford luxuries like fresh fruits that wouldn’t grow in the colder northern climates of the Zemni Fields. Often, especially towards the end of the Winter months, Bren’s family would only be able to afford two small meals a day, and even at festivals the social expectation was to only take one portion so as to leave enough for the entire village. Here, dishes filled with every luxurious food he has only ever read about spill out over every table, the scents of different meats and spices floating above the room. Bren tries a little of everything he doesn’t recognize, and while he finds that he doesn’t like most of what he tries, he is still fascinated by the sheer diversity and expense to the meal. He wonders if dinner will be like this every night. He wonders how they can possibly afford a meal like this for even  _ one  _ night.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Astrid and Eodwulf looking just as stunned as he probably does, and then he notices a few students, almost definitely nobility by the way they hold themselves, glancing at the three commoners, and sniggering under their breaths. Bren’s elated smile drops off of his face and he levels a glare at the whispering nobles. They don’t seem to notice.

 

For his first three semesters at the Academy he will be sleeping in a large dorm room that he shares with Eodwulf and two other boys. The beds too, are luxurious, and Bren has difficulty sleeping the first few nights because the weight of the family cat on his chest is achingly absent, and the mattress isn’t firm enough and the blankets are too soft on his skin. He would prefer one of his mother’s quilts.

 

As the early weeks at the Academy pass, Bren finds himself falling into a routine. Every morning, he goes to breakfast (meals aren’t quite as impressive as the feast on the first night, but they are still fancier than anything he’d ever had at home), then a few hours of classes, then a study hour, then lunch (which Bren often skips in order to continue studying), then another few hours of classes before dinner. After dinner, they have a couple of hours of downtime (which Bren usually spends in the library) before lights out at ten (although Bren typically stays up reading in bed for a couple hours after that, using one of his dancing lights covered with a sheet as a lantern).

 

The teachers seem to find him a curiosity. At first, they treat him like a child, seeming to believe that because of his broken Common and peasant background, he is probably an idiot and has somehow gotten into the Academy by mistake. He talks to Eodwulf and Astrid at dinner one night and finds that they are being dealt with in much the same way. For a while, this frustrates him immensely, but he can’t seem to find a way to express to his professors that he is one of the most intelligent people he knows when he is speaking in Zemnian.

 

This lasts up until his first history paper. He turns in an essay that is over a thousand words beyond the minimum requirement in eloquent Common (which he can write with little difficulty, it is the speaking that is hard). The professor is so impressed with his grasp on the subject, she reads the paper aloud to the entire class. And while Bren wants to sink through the floor to avoid the attention he is getting, he is extraordinarily pleased when the professor finally seems to respect him from that point forward, and even discusses theories about the Divergence with him after class sometimes.

 

Soon enough, the other professors also seem to catch on to the fact that he isn’t actually an idiot, and, strangely, seem to lean in almost the opposite direction. Now, they call him “gifted” and “a fantastic scholar.” He learns more quickly than most of the students in his class, is willing to work harder, and even approaches professors with his own questions and theories outside of class. The children of nobles and the wealthy call him a teacher’s pet and push him around in hallways but, somehow, he can’t bring himself to care. They can’t actually do any harm without getting kicked out of the Academy and he prefers his books and the professors to friends anyway.

 

As the weeks pass, however, he actually finds himself getting closer to Astrid and Eodwulf. At home, they had been separated by their vastly different personalities and busy lives, but here, they have to stick together to get through a new society so unlike their home. They each have unique gifts, and this allows them to guide each other through their chosen paths. Bren helps Astrid with transcriptions and Eodwulf with research, and in return Astrid attempts to improve his skills with healing (which he is horrible at) and Eodwulf helps him with philosophy. Each of the three is planning to enter a different school (Bren evocation, Astrid enchantment, and Eodwulf transmutation), but they still manage to find unique ways of collaborating with their magic. It is in this way that the trio begins to draw attention from Magister Trent Ikithon.

 

Towards the end of his first year at the Academy, Bren begins to notice a man listening in on some of his classes. He wears the same white-gold robes that most of the teachers do, but Bren has never seen him before now. With his yellow-tinted skin and thinning salt and pepper hair, Bren thinks that he might look sickly if not for the powerful aura of magic surrounding him. After a particularly interesting class period (which Bren had spent the second half of debating historical politics with the professor instead of completing his classwork), the man approaches him.

 

“Hallo. You are Bren Ermendrud, yes?” the man shares the same Zemnian accent that Bren has, but his has grown thinner with time.

 

“Yes.” Bren wonders what this about, playing anxiously with the hem of his sleeve and avoiding looking into the man’s eyes, which are sunken and honey-colored and a little intimidating.

 

“I have seen some of your classwork. I especially liked your essay about unusual repercussions of the Calamity. Very impressive.” He smiles warmly,

 

Bren perks up, pleased with the praise, “Thank you, Magister! I have always wondered what accomplishments we could have made with magic if not for the loss of knowledge following the Divergence.”

 

The man chuckles, “Indeed. Perhaps we could meet sometime outside of class and you can show me more of your research.”

“Of course! I would like that very much.”

...

 

They wind up meeting every few weeks right before lunch or after classes in the evening. Magister Ikithon asks him about his research, his plans for the future, and helps Bren learn things beyond what is taught in classes or what is available in the library. He learns that Magister Ikithon regards familiars as little more than a crutch for weak mages (which Bren is somewhat disappointed to hear considering the amount of time he spent trying to learn the spell when he was younger) but that some of the other spells he has chosen will be incredibly practical in the future, including his gift for fire. Bren likes Magister Ikithon’s practicality when it comes to both magic and politics. Magic is not to be wasted or used for petty tricks (Bren thinks back to entertaining the village children and feels a little ashamed at his own naivete). Rather, magic is a gift to be used for the good of the people-- for the good of the Empire. The Empire protects and provides for its people and, in return, people like Magister Ikithon and Bren can use their magic to keep it healthy and strong.

 

After a while, Bren begins bringing Astrid and Eodwulf to these meetings. Magister Ikithon had been interested in Bren’s descriptions of Astrid’s talent for healing and Eodwulf’s endeavors in magical philosophy and invited the two to join in on the private lessons. Bren is a little saddened to no longer have the sole attention of Magister Ikithon, but he is pleased to be able to share the opportunity with his friends.

 

The end of their first year arrives in the blink of an eye. On the last day of the term, Magister Ikithon calls Bren, Astrid, and Eodwulf out of class to speak with them. Bren’s heart pounds in his ears. Has he done something wrong? Magister Ikithon is waiting for them outside the classroom, his usual stiff smile plastered to his face.

 

“I am sorry to interrupt your class, but this is important. I would like to make an offer to you all.” the three students anxiously wait for him to continue, “It is tradition, occasionally, for members of the Cerebus Assembly to take especially gifted students of the Soltryce Academy on as apprentices. I would like to invite the three of you to become my apprentices and come with me to my home at the start of the next term to continue your education. I believe the three of you have extraordinary potential and I hope to give you the opportunity to use that potential for the betterment of yourselves and the Empire.” Bren says yes almost without thinking, and Astrid and Eodwulf aren’t far behind. This, Bren feels, is a gift he has been waiting for his entire life.

...

 

The end of term dance is the following day, and everyone seems to have a date except Bren. Even Eodwulf had managed to get up the courage to ask the boy he’d been crushing on all year, but every time Bren even thinks about asking someone, his hands shake and his chest feels tight and he has to sit down and read for a while before he can think straight again. He hadn’t even been planning to go to the dance at all until Astrid said she was going, but of course she’ll probably have a date too and then Bren will be alone so maybe he won’t go after all. Of course she hasn’t mentioned a date to him, but surely a person as beautiful and intelligent as her must have been asked by  _ someone _ . 

 

As it turns out, Astrid is alone at the dance. None of the snotty nobles had wanted to go with the peasant girl, as pretty or intelligent as she might be. Fortunately, Bren is alone too and Astrid ends up dragging him into an awkward waltz that they learned at a festival when they were younger and Bren can’t stop himself from looking at the soft curves of her face as she laughs at their clumsiness and the strings of blonde curls falling from where her hair is pinned up and he thinks he might be a little in love with her. At the end of the dance, Astrid presses a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek and he freezes for a full minute before he can move again. He can’t stop himself from grinning for the rest of the night.

 

A day later, while the rest of the school is on break, Bren, Astrid and Eodwulf pack their bags to leave for Magister Ikithon’s house. Bren’s history teacher stops him  in the hallway to wish him luck and ask him to send letters with the things he’s studying if he can find time. Just before they leave, Bren sends his parents his new location so they can continue to send him their weekly letters. Magister Ikithon leads the trio out of Rexxentraum and Bren leaves home for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magister is a super old title for a professor and since we don't have a canon title for Ikithon/other teachers at the Soltryce Academy I went with this because I thought it sounded neat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb learns and pays the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the big one boys. LOTS of trigger warnings but especially abuse, torture, death, mental breakdowns, etc. Please be careful.

Bren realizes quickly that learning with Magister Ikithon is going to be  _ very _ different from learning at the Academy. Magister Ikithon is stricter than most of his teachers had been, pushes them harder and farther. He has more real life experience, being the recently appointed Archmage of Civil Influence, and he often tells them of the situations where the things they are learning could be applicable in their future careers. He simultaneously imposes greater and fewer rules than the Academy-- he has very few spoken rules, but there are dozens of unspoken ones that they must be careful not to accidentally break. Unlike his other teachers, Magister Ikithon rarely offers praise or reward. If they do something wrong, he reprimands them, but he barely acknowledges their successes unless they are particularly impressive.

 

Gone are the days of lavish beds and expensive meals. Magister Ikithon’s cabin is small and Bren, Astrid, and Eodwulf share a room where they have only three bedrolls and a single blanket to share. The arrangement feels rather like their homes in Blumenthal and, similarly, is comfortable enough in the warmer months but forces them to huddle together in the winter to keep warm. This, of course, is on the nights that they sleep at all. Magister Ikithon allots each of them a certain quantity of work every day and they don’t have time to eat or sleep until it is finished. Often they will work late into the night and even into the early hours of the morning before shoveling down a meal and collapsing into a pile in their room to get what little sleep they can before the next morning’s work.

 

But this is to be expected. They are trying to pack three years of curriculum into one, so measures must be taken to preserve what little time they have to work with. Most days, the workload is tolerable, even fun, and the things they are learning are always interesting. Bren has always been a night owl, so staying up late almost every night isn’t a huge problem. Even the lack of a steady food supply or a comfortable sleeping place is something he had long ago grown used to at home, so getting used to it here is not a problem. These minor discomforts are well worth the education he is receiving.

 

They spend the first few months learning new spells. Magister Ikithon will give them a scroll and a day to copy it (these are usually the longest nights, as the scroll will be taken from them the next morning). They are then allowed the next few days to practice and discover practical uses for the spell before they have an assessment on the new spell at the end of the week. Bren is a quick reader, so he can usually finish copying the scrolls before midnight, but he typically stays up with the other two out of solidarity until they finish (because of this he learns how to precisely keep time, even without the sun to help track its progression). In much the same way, Astrid is usually the fastest to figure out how to cast the spells effectively and Eodwulf is usually the most creative and diverse in his applications, but each does their best to help the others in areas where they are lacking.

 

Magister Ikithon also has them focus time towards improving their cantrips, and Bren is stunned yet again by how vastly different their interests and methods are when it comes to magic. Astrid is, by far, the most aggressive in her magic. She can conjure acid and deadly rays of necrotic energy or ice. Strangely, she is also the best healer. The first real spell she learned was to heal minor injuries with a single word, and now she is dedicated to the art of magical healing. Eodwulf enjoys the practicalities of magic. He knows a spell to mend things and one to shape the earth and another to mold little pieces of reality, but very little in terms of battle or protection. Everything he does has a purpose in his everyday life. Bren, meanwhile, finds himself seeking the spells that are the most powerful, the most impressive, and the most intellectually intriguing. Bren wants to be the greatest, smartest, most powerful mage there has ever been. He wants to discover spells the likes of which haven’t been seen since the age of Arcana. But he knows that all his ambitions begin with simple firebolts, dancing lights, and minor illusions, so that is what he practices now.

 

The first time Bren burns himself is also the first time he feels truly homesick. In his early days of learning magic, it hadn't been uncommon for him to accidentally set himself on fire. He usually practiced near a bucket of water so he could put out the fires quickly, but that didn't stop them from occasionally burning him. Whenever this happened, it was always Bren's mother who helped him bandage and care for the wounds. Bren couldn't for the life of him figure out healing magic, so the burns healed slowly, a reminder of the dangers his gifts could present. Admittedly a reminder that he usually ignored as soon as the pain faded and he could continue practicing with the same reckless enthusiasm he always had. Now, he watches in horror as the flames curl up his arm instead of towards his target, scorching a long mark up his forearm before dissipating. He bandages the burn himself after soaking it in lukewarm water. That night as heat dances uncomfortably over his skin, he curls up on his bedroll and sobs silently, wishing his mother were there. There is no one to help him here.

 

Once their cantrips are to Magister Ikithon’s satisfaction (or, if not satisfaction, they are at the very least acceptable) he moves on to teaching them how to use their magic in battle. Eodwulf, who doesn’t know many offensive spells, learns how to use a quarterstaff and how to morph the battlefield with transmutation magic. Astrid is a menace, able to release attack after attack without hesitation. Bren, meanwhile, is the strategist. He rarely tackles a problem head on, preferring to stick to the shadows until he is in the perfect position to set off a deadly firebolt and finish the job in one hit.

 

At first, Magister Ikithon can take all of them out in seconds. They often leave a day’s training exhausted and covered from head to toe in minor injuries and wake up the next day to sore muscles and fluorescent bruises. Thankfully, Astrid is there to take care of anything serious as long as she has a spell slot or two left at the end of the day.

 

Over time, however, they begin to show clear signs of improvement, and by the time they hit the six month mark of training, the three of them together can almost defeat Magister Ikithon and one of them alone can put up a decent fight. At this point, they begin to spar with each other. They learn to adapt to different opponents and situations, to get creative with their methods. Bren plays with altering pieces of his spells, tries to cast a firebolt more slowly and gradually but ends up conjuring a strange gray smoke instead. Magister Ikithon gives him a piercing, hungrily curious look but doesn’t say anything. Bren doesn’t try this again.

 

They do not hold back in battle (because this is one of Magister Ikithon’s unspoken rules) and so as their skills improve, injuries become more and more difficult to avoid. Bren has to teach Eodwulf how to care for a burn after one particularly rough battle and feels awful for days when he sees Eodwulf flinch every time something brushes the wound the wrong way. Astrid, the greatest damage dealer, tries to save as many of her spells as she can so she can heal them every night, feeling guilty for every acid burn or ice splinter she inflicts on them. 

 

Once, towards the end of a particularly long day of training, Bren and Eodwulf are sparring and Bren holds back, diminishing the speed and intensity of his firebolt so the damage is reduced because he knows Eodwulf twisted his ankle earlier and won’t be able to get out of the way and a firebolt at full intensity could  _ kill _ him. Eodwulf looks noticeably relieved but then Bren glances at Magister Ikithon and  _ he _ looks  _ furious _ .

 

“Do you think, on the battlefield that you will hesitate or hold back and not face any consequences? Your enemy is more than willing to take advantage of a moment of weakness. You may hesitate, but they. Will. Not.” He pauses and steps forward, eyes coldly furious, “Let me show you what you should have done.”

 

Magister Ikithon stretches out a hand and wisps of pale, white smoke curl around his arm manifesting in a bolt of radiant white energy that shoots towards Eodwulf, whose eyes widen with shock as he dives to the ground, just barely escaping a burst of brilliant light that scorches the ground where he had been standing. Bren and Astrid make to dart forward, a firebolt forming in Bren’s hands and a shield shimmering in front of Astrid.

 

 **“** ** _Stay put.”_** Magister Ikithon growls, and all three of them freeze, held in place. He fires another blast and, this time, Eodwulf can’t move out of the way. The light sears through his shoulder and pushes him back a full foot. He looks dazed, like the reality of the situation hasn’t quite set in. Before he can recover, Magister Ikithon fires off another bolt, this one hits smack in the middle of his chest and the force of the blow sends Eodwulf flying. He lands in a crumpled heap, unconscious, radiant smoke still curling from the wound. With a startled gasp, Astrid breaks free of the holding spell and runs to Eodwulf’s side. Magister Ikithon does not stop her, instead turning to a still paralyzed Bren with eyes colder than he has ever seen them. Something gold and sticky coats his fingertips.

 

“You will not hesitate again. Understood?” Bren is released from the spell and falls to his knees. He nods numbly and does not look Magister Ikithon in the eye.

 

And yet, the next morning, the memory of the fight seems faded, like it happened years ago instead of just yesterday and the shock and horror of the moment has softened. He finds that Eodwulf is almost completely healed and neither he nor Astrid remembers the fight at all.

 

...

 

Magister Ikithon calls Bren to his office a few days later. Bren stands at attention in front of his desk, the dim lighting of the room making the angles of Magister Ikithon’s face sharper. Magister Ikithon places a small crystal on the desk in front of him. The crystal is made of jagged, unpolished surfaces in writhing, smoky grays and appears to be emitting a dull glow.

 

“Pick it up.” Bren does. “I want you to try something for me. Cast a spell using this instead of your components.”

 

Bren holds up the crystal to examine it, “What is it?”

 

“Cast the spell.” He has experimented with arcane focuses before, but always preferred components. Bren thinks of fire, but instead, a wisp of gray smoke curls up from his hand, dissipating almost immediately. Magister Ikithon mutters something to himself in a language Bren doesn’t recognize. Sylvan maybe? He makes a mental note to read up on Sylvan later.

 

“You may go back to your work.” Magister Ikithon takes the crystal back and Bren returns to where Astrid and Eodwulf are sparring outside.

 

...

 

Later, Magister Ikithon calls him again. He places a crystal down on the table, this one a dark red, and tells him to cast with it. Bren does, but his flames sputter out in a matter of seconds.

“I am sorry. I am not so used to arcane focuses. I can try again?”

 

“Don’t bother. Go back to your work.”

 

Bren can’t help but feel like he has disappointed his mentor somehow.

 

...

 

That day, they move on from battle to history. Magister Ikithon lectures them on all manner of topics from the Age of Arcana to the conflict with Xhorrhas in the mornings and then gives them books to fill in the blanks. Bren finds himself just as fascinated with the long and glorious history of their Empire as he had been at the Academy.

 

He reads about the Dwendalian Empire’s slow, steady advancement across the continent, growing to encompass his home in the Zemni fields, and then the Marrow Valley in the South, and then, finally, the Julous Dominion to become the largest political power on the continent. He reads about the tensions and border skirmishes that have occurred on the border between the Empire and Xhorrhas for decades. He reads about great kings and queens that have long protected and served the people of the Empire, ensuring that every soldier, shopkeeper, and child is safe and well. One book that he finds strangely fascinating concerns infamous criminals in the Empire’s history-- everything from Crick spies to serial killers to dissidents. The idea of dissidents is particularly strange to him. Why would anyone in their right mind try to rebel against the sheer size and force of the Empire? Not to mention thinking about the aftermath. The Empire keeps things safe and in order. Without it, the entire continent would dissolve into chaos.

 

Magister Ikithon also teaches them about the intricacies of politics in the Empire. They learn the names of all of the most powerful people and their spheres of influence. And then there are all of the ridiculous manners and customs of Dwendalian nobility. Bren doesn’t really understand the logic behind all of the pomp and circumstance, but he mimics it anyway because if this is what it will take to succeed in the political world, this is what he’ll do.

 

They get to put their knowledge to the test when Magister Ikithon brings them to a holiday banquet. All of the greatest mages, all of the noble elites, all of the high ranking soldiers are there and Bren doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His high collar is slightly too tight around his neck and it’s all he can focus on until Astrid takes his hand and drags him toward a small group of people in Cerberus Assembly garb. He stammers in protest but she ignores him, pulling him into a conversation with Master Maryn Aloay, an ambassador from the Menagerie Coast, Magister Jeyn Cardin, a historian who works in the Halls of Erudition, and Lady Vess DeRogna, the Archmage of Antiquity.

 

Bren has always had an easier time talking to adults than people his own age, but it still comes as a surprise that these magical elites are actually interested in what he has to say. Magister Cardin and Lady DeRogna discuss magical history and theory with the same passion Bren does, and even when Bren has a differing theory from theirs, they still listen respectfully and respond with their own ideas. He catches Astrid grinning at him out of the corner of his eye and gives her a small smile in response.

 

Over the course of the night he gets to talk to other mages and politicians as well and every time is shocked that they actually seem to  _ like _ him. It’s not that he thinks he’s an unlikeable person. But he is uncomfortably aware of the fact that he sometimes trips over his words, that he can be stiff and awkward or nervous, that its disconcerting when he avoids eye contact. And yet no one here seems to really care. He even overhears Lady DeRogna telling Magister Ikithon what a “charming, intelligent young man” he is and Bren feels like he’s nearly glowing with pride.

 

Bren and Astrid end up dancing again. This time, it’s a more formal dance traditional to the Empire-- a little less flexible, a little more decorated-- but it’s fun all the same. It’s past midnight when they finally trudge back to the cart in an exhausted pile, ready to return home.

 

...

 

Shortly after they get back, Magister Ikithon leaves again in the middle of the night. He gives them a short list of assignments, but these are on the easier side and seem almost like an afterthought. Bren, Astrid, and Eodwulf enjoy their brief freedom from authority, actually taking the time to eat full meals, sleep the entire night (except for Bren, who still stays up reading) and take breaks from their studying to just talk or play card games from their childhood and enjoy themselves. It’s a nice respite from the long months of studying and training. 

 

Bren’s seventeenth birthday arrives during this time and Astrid and Eodwulf make a little cake for him that’s really just slightly stale bread with little chocolate shavings sprinkled on top of it but Bren is too happy to care. Eodwulf makes him a little figure of a bird from a sheet of paper as a gift and Astrid gives him a hand-made bracelet and a small, shy kiss. A warm, happy glow falls over him and he grins. The nights still carry the chill of spring, so the three of them huddle together, Eodwulf on one side of Bren and Astrid on the other (because Bren is the warmest) and, just before they blow out their lantern, Astrid kisses him again, longer and slower this time, and he feels dizzily, drunkenly happy.

 

...

 

Magister Ikithon returns early in the morning while the three of them are asleep, a little over a week after he had left. He wakes them up at exactly 5:03 for the day’s training and Bren feels a sinking disappointment that their brief period of freedom is over, and then immediately feels guilty because he knows he should be appreciative of the opportunity to continue learning.

 

He tells them to pack some rudimentary supplies and then they set off, past the meadows surrounding their little cabin and into the woods. They hike for most of the morning before coming to stop at another small, wooden structure in the middle of a dense forest. The inside of the cabin is fairly empty. There is table and two chairs in one corner and a bed in another, but the rest of the room is entirely devoid of any sign of life. Bren notices a small trapdoor in the center of the room that blends into the wooden floor around it. Magister Ikithon opens the door and leads them down a set of stairs into a dark room.

 

Magister Ikithon lights a lantern, casting a dim glow across the entire room, including an unconscious figure tied to a chair in the center. As the lantern light catches the man’s face, Bren finds with a start that he recognizes him. This is the Blackbird, the leader of a rebel group known for fighting against by the Empire by slaughtering entire villages if they refuse to join his cause. Bren has seen wanted posters with his face on them all around Rexxentraum, heard teachers whispering about him in hallways, read newspaper articles detailing his latest atrocities. And, now, he is sitting bloodied and unconscious right in front of Bren. By the looks on their faces, he can tell Astrid and Eodwulf recognize him too.

 

“This man is a murderer and a traitor. It is time to show him what happens to those who oppose the Empire.” He casts three spells in quick succession (the flash of his components is too quick for Bren to tell what they are, but he does see a glint of amber on his fingertips) and then wakes the Blackbird up by dumping a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. The Blackbird jolts awake and levels a glare at him. Bren shivers at the glint of pure hatred in his eyes.

 

“I  _ suggest _ that you cooperate with me so we can finish this as soon as possible.” Magister Ikithon says plainly, as if there is nothing strange about this situation. For a moment, the Blackbird’s eyes seem to cloud over, the spell taking affect, but then they clear again, as cold and hateful as ever. This is the first time Bren has seen one of Magister Ikithon’s spells fail. Magister Ikithon grinds his teeth, dully irritated.

 

“I suppose we must do this the hard way then.” He steps closer to the Blackbird, his expression cold, almost blank. “You will die here. That is a fact. The question is, how quickly, how painfully? That, my friend, is up to you.” Magister Ikithon draws a knife and lodges it in the Blackbird’s shoulder before Bren can blink. The Blackbird grunts, but does not scream. This does not last long.

 

By the time the sun sets, the Blackbird is dead and his screams are ringing in Bren’s ears. His perfect memory recalls every cut, every blow, every labored word that fell from the Blackbird’s lips when he finally broke and spilled every little detail about his rebel group’s plans. Bren does not sleep that night.

 

The walk back to Magister’ Ikithon’s cabin is unsettlingly quiet. There are dark circles under all three of their eyes and none under Magister Ikithon’s. Astrid grips his hand tight and does not let go the entire way there.

 

A week later, things have returned mostly to normal. They continue to study history, along with supplementary material about biology and literature and arithmetic. Magister Ikithon keeps giving Bren crystals, but seems more and more frustrated with each attempt. Then, Magister Ikithon wakes them early again one morning to take them back to the run down cabin in the middle of the woods. As they walk, Bren feels a sinking dread in the pit of his stomach.

 

This time, the woman in the chair is not someone he recognizes, but he assumes she is of the same ilk as the Blackbird, a murderer or traitor due for an execution with information the Empire needs. Magister Ikithon treats the woman as a lesson. He teaches each of them where to hit or cut to cause the most pain and the least injury, what spells can be used to supplement the process, how best to ask questions to someone whose mind is clouded by agony. Bren lasts two hours before violently throwing up, and Astrid and Eodwulf don’t last much longer. With a disappointed sigh, Magister Ikithon tells them to sit upstairs for a while and catch their breath. Even sitting in the tranquil quiet of the forest, they can still hear the screams drifting from the basement.

 

Bren knows, deep down, that this is the best way accomplish things. Time is often of the essence when it comes to threats to the Empire and the best way to acquire the information they need to protect themselves is to force it out of the criminals who know it. He knows that these are horrible people who deserve to die. But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear the screams, the begging, the broken confessions. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear the smell of blood and shit or watch the light leave someone’s eyes as their body falls limp, breathless. He knows that he could never get used to this.

 

And yet, it does get easier to bear over time. Every time he enters the basement, his hands shake less and the screams are less piercing and he doesn’t feel nearly as faint at the sight of blood. He feels a pang of guilt. He ignores it.

 

The man in the chair now is another dissident, a cultist whose worship of an illegal deity had meant the sacrifice of dozens of lives. After three hours of little progress, Magister Ikithon pauses, thinking for a moment. He offers Bren the knife. There is a drop of honey clinging to the blade. Bren finds his gaze being dragged to Magister Ikithon’s eyes and suddenly the memory of that day of battle training comes flooding back to him, no longer muted. The message is clear: this time, he cannot hesitate. Bren takes the knife.

 

The man dies a little sooner than they wanted, but they have the information they need. Bren lets the glow of heat around the knife dissipate and tries to give it back to Magister Ikithon, who is regarding the body with scrutiny.

 

“Not bad.” he says, still staring into the dead cultists cloudy eyes, “Keep it. My gift to you for a job well done.” Despite himself, Bren swells at the praise. He carefully tucks the knife away.

 

They become the Empire’s secret inquisitors and executioners. The criminals who are too public to be killed without being regarded as martyrs or the criminals who are too secret for the public to know about are sent to Magister Ikithon and his apprentices to be interrogated and executed so they will never harm the Empire again. They become good at their job very quickly and once the guilt and nausea has numbed somewhat, Bren becomes almost proud of his work. It develops into a sort of competition between the three of them to see who can get a confession the quickest, or with the least damage. It starts as a coping mechanism of sorts, but as the weeks go by the competition is almost a game.

 

After all, these are the most abhorrent people in the Empire. They don’t deserve painless deaths or solemn respect. They deserve to die choking on their own blood while Astrid cracks a smile at their bug-eyed expression. They deserve Eodwulf’s smug satisfaction when he delivers a well placed kick and they drown in their own blood. They deserve to scream themselves hoarse from wounds that seal themselves because of Bren’s glowing red knife. They will find no pity here.

 

...

 

Bren is summoned to Ikithon’s office once again. A jagged, blue crystal lays on the table. Following their typical routine, Bren reaches to pick it up, but Magister Ikithon stops him.

 

“Not this time. We are going to try something different. Hold out your hand.”

 

Bren feels the crystal entering his arm from a distance, almost as if it’s happening to someone else. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and he grits his teeth to fight off the pain. When he casts, his fire is multicolored, a rainbow of blues and purples and greens that contrasts with the deep red blood running down his arm in rivulets. Magister Ikithon looks pleased.

 

...

 

Bren’s arms hurt. They always hurt, now that he, Astrid, and Eodwulf have been experimenting with the crystals. They’ve taken to wearing bandages at all times to keep any new wounds from getting infected, but the pain becomes constant, familiar. He longs for the power the crystals provide. It’s like a rush of adrenaline and for a moment, he feels like he can do anything. Bren refuses to be like the people he’s tortured. For him, the pain will make him stronger. But when the crystals are gone and all that’s left is a bleeding wound, he just feels exhausted.

 

...

  
  


As the final weeks of their apprenticeship go by, Magister Ikithon seems more and more pleased with their progress. He compliments more freely, praises their successes, and deals far fewer punishments. The crystal experiments continue, but Bren knows they are for the sake of his own improvement, and for the good of the Empire. Magister Ikithon tells them one evening that they are nearing their graduation. There will be a final assessment, of course, but it is tradition to let apprentices go home to visit their families for a few days before this.

 

The four of them leave the cabin the next morning to make the long trek to Blumenthal. There is a happy buzz in Bren’s chest at the thought of seeing his parents again and he can’t wait to see how much the village has changed in the almost two years since he left.

 

As it turns out, not much. The farmland has little tufts of green next to sheep wandering in the pasture, the houses are in the same shabby but functional state they always have been, and even the people look like someone painted a portrait of them two years ago and then magically reconstructed it in real life. The only person who really looks different is the Müllers child, who had been a newborn when Bren left and is now toddling cheerfully around the village.

 

And yet... Blumenthal still  _ feels _ different than it did two years ago. He supposes that even if the village hasn’t changed much, Bren definitely has. He has two years more experience, two years more training. He sees the world so much differently than when his first priority was to impress his teachers. He hopes more than anything that his parents are proud of the progress he’s made, the person he’s become. His worst fear is disappointing them.

 

But his mother’s eyes light up when he knocks on the door and he can see tears in the corners of his father’s eyes. Their embrace is just as warm and comforting as he remembers and his mother still smells like fresh-baked bread and his father’s beard is still scratchy on his forehead and all is right with the world.

 

The next few days are a tranquil bliss that Bren will later remember as the last time he felt truly happy. He has long conversations with his parents, helps his mother bake and sew and his father care for the fields, and shows off some of the new spells he’s learned. He tells them about his research into the Age of Arcana and his more precise control over his fire. He tells them about Eodwulf and Astrid and how he thinks he might be in love. He tells them about his plans for the future, potential careers that he wants to shadow once he graduates. He doesn’t talk about Magister Ikithon’s bad moods or battle training or his brief period as an executioner.

 

Bren sleeps in his childhood bedroom. The same pile of his mother’s hand-sewn quilts adorns his bed, the same books overflow from his bookshelves, and the same assortment of childhood collections (from when he thought any old rock or stick could be spell component) are lined up on his windowsill. 

 

On the last night he sleeps peacefully, dreamlessly, his sleep uninterrupted by his knowledge that he must leave the next day.

 

On the last night he sleeps fitfully. Something has felt... Wrong this entire trip. Like someone has moved everything in his house an inch to the left. He wakes close to midnight, mere minutes after he had fallen asleep in the first place. He hears his parents whispering quietly downstairs. They sound worried, but also strangely excited. Knowing that he will have trouble getting back to sleep tonight, Bren gets out of bed to join them. He stops short once he reaches the top of the stairs and hears what they are actually saying.

 

His parents speak of revolution. They curse the Empire and everything it has gifted them. They are planning to tear the Empire to the ground. Bren feels like his entire world is crashing down around him. He wants to run away or throw up or go back in time and stop himself from listening in the first place. He does not sleep that night.

 

The next morning Bren cheerfully waves goodbye to his parents, promising to write as soon as he can.

 

The next morning Bren is stiff and terse as he says goodbye to his parents. He ignores their looks of confusion and attempts at affection as he turns his back to the village and walks away. He notices similar looks of horrified shame on the faces of Astrid and Eodwulf once they meet up. He does not notice the thinly veiled satisfaction on Magister Ikithon’s. Nor does he notice a drop of honey fall from his fingers.

 

...

 

They arrive back at the Academy that evening to do their assessment. The written assessment is first, a test on the history and governing of the empire and a short essay describing their experiences with Magister Ikithon. Then they are brought before members of the Cerberus Assembly for their practical portion. Bren notices his old history teacher wave at him from the front row and gives a weak smile in return, too anxious to do much else. They perform every spell they have learned (at least those that can safely be shown indoors) and then describe the theory behind some spells that are too difficult for them to have learned yet. The members of the Cerberus Assembly leave to deliberate while the last section of their assessment is given by Magister Ikithon.

 

“Prove your loyalty to the Empire. I trust each of you to find a task suitable to the assignment. Do not disappoint me.” He shakes each of their hands and looks them in the eye. His fingers are still sticky with honey. Once Magister Ikithon leaves the room, Bren glances to Astrid and Eodwulf. They each give him a nod. They know what must be done.

 

They arrive back in Blumenthal early in the morning, an hour or so before the sun is due to rise. They creep into Eodwulf’s childhood home while his parents are still sleeping. Eodwulf’s father is a miller who has worked tirelessly to provide for his family his entire life. His mother helps tend to the herds of sheep and knits soft sweaters from their wool. Bren and Astrid stand to the side as Eodwulf slits their throats and they are dead before they can scream. Eodwulf wipes the blood from his hands and returns the knife to the kitchen drawer and looks at Bren with cold eyes so similar to Magister Ikithon’s that they give him chills.

 

That evening they are all invited to dinner at Astrid’s parents’ house. They make pleasant conversation over a delicious meal that tastes like ashes in Bren’s mouth. Astrid’s parents are smiths. Her mother mostly works the forge while her father runs the shop. Astrid lets a few drops from a vial fall into their drinks while they prepare dessert. Ten minutes later they die choking on their own vomit while their daughter watches expressionlessly. When they are dead and cold, she looks at them with a small, bittersweet smile tinged with satisfaction and presses a kiss to each of their foreheads before leaving.

 

It is nearing midnight when they arrive at Bren’s parents’ house. Astrid and Eodwulf help him push a wooden cart filled with dry straw in front of the door. He stands back and takes a deep breath that does not soothe his ragged breathing and fluttering heartbeat. His hand blackens and heat rushes to his fingertips, manifesting in a bolt of fire that consumes the straw before moving to the cart. The flames begin to lap at the house. The world  _ burns _ .

 

Smoke stings his eyes and catches in his throat as the flames leap toward the sky. Everything is bright and burning, but he is sure that this is right. This is good. This is where he’s meant to be. And then he hears the screams. His father was a loyal soldier to the Empire when Bren was young. He devoted his life to keeping its citizens safe and happy and now he is  _ burning _ . His mother spent her life’s earnings to send him to school. She sews and laughs and her hugs are warm and he can see the outline of her blackened skull in the window as she  _ burns _ . And they are  _ screaming _ . And then there is nothing but echoing silence and crackling flames and blood rushing in his ears. Bren is sure. He is  _ so _ sure. And then he isn’t.

  
The world is burning around him and suddenly Bren can’t stand it. His father is a loyal soldier.  **_His father is a traitor to the Empire._ ** His mother is pure and good.  **_His mother is plotting revolution_ ** **.** He can’t remember what’s right anymore. He still hears screams, shouting but they are far away now.  _ He  _ is shouting now. In Zemnian, Common, Sylvan. Words that mean nothing and everything.  **** He tries to move the cart, to shove past the blocked door even as the flesh on his hands melts away but he barely feels the pain. He needs to save them.  **_They deserve to die._ ** He feels hands, Astrid and Eodwulf pulling him back, holding him even as he flails and screams. They should let him  _ burn _ . Bren falls to the ground, colder and damper than he deserves. Everything goes blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Yeah. I took a few liberties with the 5e rules here but mostly this fits into the DnD/Critical Role universe pretty well. I really wanted to make Astrid a necromancer but the Empire doesn't like those much so she's mostly in the enchantment school with a bit of evocation instead (I have a complete spell list for levels 1-5ish for all three of them during this time period and a mostly complete spell list for Ikithon lol). I also really dug into the lore of the Critical Role universe to research for this chapter and some of the stuff in Exandrian history is really interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb faces the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this one is pretty rough too. TW for depression, PTSD, and suicidal ideation.

There is a soft, warm glow pulsing at the front of his mind, a golden light sinking into every corner of his head. The light begins to pull away, and with it, wisps of pale smoke and flecks of amber like honey. And then the warmth is gone, and there is only pain. He wakes with an agony too consuming to even scream, like someone has fired a crossbow bolt straight into his skull. He takes in shallow, shuddering gasps of air and blinks away the clouds in his vision. A hand pulls away from his forehead and he  _ remembers _ .

 

He remembers smoke stinging at his eyes and wrapping around his lungs. He remembers sparks darting from towering flames. He remembers the screaming and the outline of his mother’s blackened skull. His mother... Oh god his parents are dead. They are dead and he is the one who murdered them. Why isn’t he dead too? Why didn’t he burn with his parents like he deserves? He looks at his hands and they are shiny with patches of scars, but there are no wounds. He wishes the pain in his head would go away. He knows he deserves the pain. He wishes his mother were here. He wishes he were dead. The pain recedes to a dull throbbing and he hates himself for being relieved. There is a woman sitting next to him on the floor. She giggles, a wild look in her eyes.

 

“No more clouds! Goodbye!” The woman stands unsteadily and meanders out the door, still giggling and muttering something about clouds under her breath. He blinks. He has no idea what just happened or where he is.

 

Well, at the very least he is in a room. A room with pale walls and a bed dressed with pastel-checkered sheets and a barred window too high up for him to properly see out of. If this is a prison, it is a very strange one. He runs a hand through his hair and it is much longer than he remembers and there is a shadow of stubble on his chin. He’s never been able to grow facial hair. He wonders again how long he has been here. He tries the door and finds that it is locked.

 

A tall woman dressed in plain white robes enters almost an hour later. She has a face lined with years of laughter and sun-spotted leathery hands, but she is not elderly and her hair holds only hints of gray. She musses the bedclothes and chatters idly towards him, but doesn’t seem to expect him to respond, so he doesn’t. Then she gently helps him to his feet, a guiding hand on his arm, and escorts him out of the room, still continuing her one-way conversation. He discovers quickly that his legs are weaker than they used to be and his hands are almost constantly shaking, all those long months of battle training and building muscle gone in the blink of an eye. Her hand is warm to the touch and he notices that he is strangely cold. He can’t feel fire magic coursing under his skin.

The woman leads him to another, larger room and it is at this moment that he realizes exactly where he is. This is not a prison, this is an asylum. The room is comfortable enough, with the same pale walls and homey furniture as the previous one, but to he it feels stifling. There’s a dwarf in one corner having a conversation with the empty air and a human sitting in an armchair stacking books on top of each other and laughing hysterically after each one as the tower gets precariously higher. When the tower crashes down they break down sobbing and one of the four people in the same white robes (he assumes they are the orderlies or doctors or something similar) rushes over to comfort them. The pleasantly pastel, windowless walls and dainty furniture seem to be laughing at him. He thinks with hysterical bitterness that at the very least Ikithon thought to put him in a  _ nice _ madhouse.

 

He supposes that this  _ is  _ a prison, in a way. The inmates aren’t allowed anywhere except their rooms without supervision. Every move he makes is watched and carefully controlled-- his activities, his sleeping and eating habits, even bathing. There is an imposing man in Cerberus Assembly garb who follows him everywhere and keeps watch outside his door at night. He suspects that the man was sent by Ikithon to make sure he doesn’t regain his sanity or wander off.

 

So he keeps up the pretense of madness. He remains unresponsive and blank, not reacting to any outside influence if he can help it. This appears to be what the orderlies expect of him. It is humiliating, not to be able to feed and dress himself, the orderlies talking to him as if he were a toddler, having to lean on someone to manage even a few steps and feeling out of breath after the smallest of movements.

 

But he takes the time to watch and wait, analyzing the patterns of the asylum and the people within it. He finds entrances and exits, learns the shifts of the orderlies, and even observes the routines of every patient. The easiest ones to track are the craziest-- the people who are barely conscious of themselves and scream and cry if they catch a semblance of awareness. There are the unpredictable ones, who talk to walls and move randomly and unexpectedly, like the woman he believes healed him. These are the people he will have to watch out for the most. 

 

And then there are the ones who are almost sane. Perhaps their eyes are constantly flicking around the room with paranoia. Perhaps they talk a little too loudly and move their hands a little too much. Perhaps they shake with anxiety at the most minor of inconveniences. But, otherwise, they are normal. These are the people he avoids the most. They remind him a little too strongly of himself.

 

It takes a few weeks, but eventually his confidence grows enough to attempt an escape. He makes sure to account for every detail he could possibly need and then waits for the perfect opportunity. He sticks a tiny piece of cloth in the lock so the door won’t close all the way when the orderly locks it for the night. When she leaves, he waits ten minutes for Ikithon’s guard to get into position. At exactly 8:40, he opens the door. Sure enough, the guard is standing a few feet away next to a chair, boredly fiddling with an amulet that hangs around his neck. The amulet is the most important part of this operation.

 

Almost all members of the Cerberus Assembly have an amulet that protects them from divination magic, making them impossible to find by any magical means. Ikithon wore one and, if he is right, his guard has one hanging around his neck, just begging to be stolen. He waits until he is sure the guard’s attention is directed away from him before darting forward and tackling him to the ground, shoving his arm into the man’s mouth to prevent him from drawing attention. This proves to be unnecessary, however, as the guard smacks his head at an awkward angle on the chair and falls to the ground with a nasty-sounding crunch, dead. He takes the amulet and the guard’s coat and runs.

 

He keeps quiet and moves swiftly, avoiding the places where he knows there is likely to be an orderly or guard. He disables a magical alarm on an exterior door (not the main door) and before he knows it he is outside, breathing in the crisp night air. He keeps running.

 

He runs past the point where the thin layer of snow on the ground numbs his bare feet, past the point where air feels like daggers in his lungs and his heart threatens to jump out of his chest. He runs for days, runs until he collapses, sleeps fitfully, and then gets up to run again. He runs until he is sure that nobody is following him and even then he runs farther just in case. And then he can’t run anymore. He reaches a relatively warm and dry natural cave, burrows into his stolen coat, and then sleeps for what feels like days.

 

...

 

He wakes to find his muscles sore and his throat aching. He can’t feel his feet, but he also doesn’t see any signs of frostbite so he considers himself lucky. He really needs to find shoes. And food, he adds as his stomach growls. He remembers just a few weeks ago when his priorities were rising through the ranks of the empire, learning magic beyond his wildest dreams, becoming the greatest mage the Empire had ever seen. Now he has been reduced to scrounging for food.

 

Except it hasn’t been just a few weeks, he discovers when he finally gets up the courage to enter a village. He conceals a chunk of bread and some cheese in his coat and walks briskly out of the shop, catching a glance at a calendar hanging behind the front counter along the way. He is already back at his hideout before the realization sinks in. It has been almost eleven years since he was meant to graduate, since the night he murdered his own parents. While he was unresponsive in an asylum, the rest of the world has moved on. He is almost twenty eight years old, but he still feels like he’s seventeen.

 

His name doesn’t feel right anymore. Bren was someone who belonged somewhere. Bren had a home that he destroyed and people who loved him that he killed or abandoned. Now he has nowhere to go and no one to rely on. It only makes sense for him not to have a name either. 

 

And, in a way, he supposes that Bren was a name, a person who belonged to Ikithon. Bren’s body, his magic, his mind were never really his own. Ikithon took that away from him. No one can take away his identity now if there’s no identity to take.

 

Things spiral quickly after this. He keeps moving from village to village, at a slower pace this time. Every time he enters a new place, is forced to talk to a new person, he changes his name. He steals what he can get, but what he can get isn’t much. His coat is thicker, warmer now, if a bit ragged around the edges, stolen from where it was hanging outside a family’s home, but he keeps the old one to use as a blanket on colder nights. Still, he aches with cold. His magic has abandoned him after years of disuse, magic that he spent years learning and training gone in the blink of an eye. Food supplies are few and far between, but he steals what he can manage. His gut is constantly tight with hunger. He sleeps very little, partially because of paranoia and partially because when he does sleep, it is almost always interrupted by nightmares. All of this is still less than he deserves.

 

He begins to wonder if survival is worth it. What does he have to live for now? His parents are gone, dead by his own hand. He can never return to his village again. He is homeless, friendless, nameless. He has no magic, no career prospects, no future unless he counts slowly starving or freezing to death in an alley in a dumpy village in the middle of nowhere. He curls up in the back of an alley, near the vent of a kitchen. It is slightly warmer here and the smell of food is almost as good as the real thing. He falls asleep and hopes that, if he’s lucky, he won’t wake up again.

 

He wakes because something hard and uncomfortable is digging into his side. Something tucked into the inside pocket of Ikithon’s guard’s coat. He had searched the pockets before and found nothing but some spell components that were now useless to him and a couple coppers that he had already spent. Maybe he’s going crazy. Well,  _ more _ crazy anyway. He digs into the outer pockets, pulls out a spool of thread and a small iron rod, nothing. Then he finds a seam on the inside, neatly sewn, but not quite well enough to be hidden. He tears apart the fabric. Inside the hidden pocket is a few pieces of gold, a broken amulet (most likely for a concealment spell), and a book. The right side holds a book as well. He stares at the books. Familiarity creeps into him.

 

One is a book of Zemnian fairy tales with beautiful illustrations. The other is filled with runes and spells.  His parents’ gifts to him for his tenth birthday. He breaks down sobbing.

 

It takes him a few weeks to get the components he needs and a few days more to transcribe the spell. The incense and herbs he steals from an apothecary. Charcoal is easy, he just takes some from a days-old fire pit he finds next to the road. For the bronze brazier he uses a finely decorated bowl that he takes from an artisans’ shop. He throws the components into the brazier and tries to ignore the tremors in his hands as he sets them aflame. The smell of incense curls into the air and the smoke is so thick he can barely see the flames. He reads the spell and then watches as the smoke writhes into a familiar shape. A small orange bengal hops out of the brazier, unbothered by the flames, which immediately sputter out.

 

The cat meows by way of greeting, striding over to curl up comfortably in his lap. He is strongly reminded of the family cat who slept on his chest at home. He remembers the warmth and happiness of his childhood, his parents who believed so much in his future and, for once, the memories are not tainted with bitterness.

 

It occurs to him that if he dies now, all of his parents’ sacrifices will truly be for nothing. Their money, their love, their gifts, their deaths wasted. If nothing else, he needs to keep moving. Maybe if he can find a way to keep surviving, he can find a way to  _ fix _ this. Once, he had wanted to be the most powerful mage in the Empire, to discover spells the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Age of Arcana. He has a long way to go before he’ll be anywhere near acquiring the power and knowledge he needs, but finding a familiar is a good start. He decides he will call his new familiar Frumpkin.

 

Slowly, the warm, staticky magical energy returns to him. He relearns some of the simpler spells and cantrips first: dancing lights and an alarm for his campsites. Then, one night, it is so cold and snowy he fears that if he falls asleep he will never wake up. He gathers dry, brittle kindling from the trees and tries to light a fire, but his little flint is not enough to catch in this wind and cold. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing ragged, and stretches out an arm. He feels heat rush down his arm, feels his hand blacken, and then hears the crackle of his firebolt hitting the pile of wood. Fire still comes naturally to him, his greatest gift, he thinks bitterly. He opens his eyes and stares into the small, but present flames, memories threatening to overwhelm him, but he manages to survive the night.

 

Things get easier. He gets better at stealing and doesn’t have nearly as many close calls with the Crownsguard as he used to. He learns how to trick people out of their money instead of just taking it, distracting them with pretenses of emotion or insanity while he slips things from their bags. Once he figures out the basics of transmutation, he incorporates that into his cons as well, changing coppers to silvers and trading them for real silvers, then making sure he is far away before they inevitably change back. Frumpkin becomes an accomplice to his crimes, causing distractions or stealing things he is unable to reach.

 

People don’t pay much attention to a filthy beggar. Everyone walks a little more quickly to get by him, averting their eyes. It helps him get away with cons and makes it harder for the Crownsguard to find him after he steals something important. He almost enjoys the protection this gives him. Ikithon’s people will have a hard time finding someone who people can barely stand to look at. There’s a strange satisfaction in benefitting from being a disgusting, beaten-down excuse for a human being.

 

But he gets by. Weeks turn into months turn into years and he survives and keeps moving and stays out of prison. Mostly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb forms a strange partnership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still some trigger warnings here. Watch out for anxiety (especially anxiety spiraling), PTSD, dissociation, self harming stims, suicidal ideation, and minor injury. Don't worry ya'll it's all up from here!

Once, just once, he gets a little too cocky. Takes risks a little too big just for the possibility of having a full belly. He is just climbing back through the window of the house he has just stolen almost an entire, mostly cooked meal from when Frumpkin yowls a warning outside. Shocked, he tumbles from the window, landing on the kitchen floor with a grunt. He pushes himself up, shoulder protesting, and is just about to make another attempt when a man opens the door. He stares at the man. The man stares at him. And then everything moves at once.

 

He leaps for the window at the same time the man leaps for him, and while he manages to get through the window, he finds an array of Crownsguard waiting for him on the other side. He breaks into a limping run, ignoring the blood running down his face where the glass of the window had bitten into it, snapping his fingers to be sure Frumpkin is safe. He moves to duck into a hiding spot and is almost certain that he’s escaped when he stumbles and falls flat on his face. He scrambles to his feet, but now the Crownsguard have caught up to him and before he can prepare a spell he is pushed back to the ground with a swift kick to the ribs and the third Crownsguard moves to handcuff him. He goes limp and lets himself be handcuffed, he thinks he’d rather be in prison than dead. The Crownsguard delivers another kick just to be sure.

 

“Filthy thief.” he snarls. He is too out of breath to respond

 

Before he knows it, he is tossed into a cell with all his belongings, including his books, taken. He crumples to the floor as the door slams shut and locks with a nasty grinding sound. He takes a moment to catch his breath before looking around. The cell has three stone walls and a cold, even stonier floor. There is a pile of straw in one corner, a bucket in the other. The door is barred and locked, the metal old and rusty. There are two other cells, one next to his and the other across a narrow hallway, both empty.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to become bored out of his mind. He starts by pacing the cell, memorizing every stone in the walls in the hopes they might offer an opportunity for escape. They just look gray and empty, save a few cracks and dents and one ominous looking brown stain. When he starts to feel too stiff and achy to pace anymore, he sits near the straw pile and picks at the frayed edges of his clothing, then picks the glass splinters from his face, and then picks at the scars on his forearms because he still has nothing better to do.

 

He sleeps a lot, but never for very long because every time he closes his eyes he sees flames and hears screams and tastes ashes on his tongue. Usually he dreams of that night, of his parents’ deaths, but sometimes his dreams are stranger. He’ll dream of Ikithon, who tells him of his disappointment, of his wasted gifts before dissolving into pale smoke. He’ll dream that Eodwulf and Astrid are burning too, and no matter what he does he cannot save them but he strangely hears their harsh laughter echoing from the brilliant flames. Once, he dreams that he is drowning in a viscous, amber liquid, too thick to really move in and when his lungs finally give in and he takes a breath, the liquid tastes sickly sweet-- honey-- and then he drowns and wakes up. No matter how much sleep he gets he always feels exhausted when he is awake.

 

He doesn’t like being awake much because when he is awake he has nothing to do but think. He tries to focus on remembering spells he has lost the ability to cast, but it’s difficult to really do anything without being able to write it down. So then his thoughts drift to the past. He thinks of every mistake he’s made, every chance he had to alter his path toward something better that he never took. And yet he has difficulty pinning down the one thing he would change if he could. Sometimes he wishes he had never tried to enter the Academy, but then he would never have met Astrid and Eodwulf or learned all the amazing things he used to know. Maybe if he had never agreed to apprentice to Ikithon, but even then the year he spent at that cabin was so incredibly valuable he can’t imagine giving it up. Really, it all comes down to That Night, the night everything fell apart. There must be  _ something _ he could have done differently to prevent it all from going to shit. But he can’t seem to come up with anything and so he just thinks himself in circles until he almost wishes he were brain-dead in that asylum again.

 

And then he hears shouting and cursing coming from just down the hall. He shrinks against the back wall as the noise gets closer, trying to avoid attention. There are two, perfectly good empty cells in this hallway, but for some reason the guards approach his instead, carrying a tiny, struggling creature between the two of them who hisses and spits at them with fervent intent to escape. The guards unlock his cell and toss the creature inside, where it rolls to its feet and then attempts to throw itself at the door before it can close. When its efforts prove unsuccessful, the creature climbs up the door as far as it can and bares its teeth at the guards, still cursing violently. 

 

One of the guards chuckles and says, “Bet you five coppers it eats him before tomorrow morning.” 

 

The other guard laughs as they move back down the hallway, “No bet. He’ll be dead before the sun sets.”

 

The creature drops down from the bars with a huff and turns to get a look at its new surroundings. The first thing He sees are yellow eyes that glow in the dim light. Then he sees tall, pointed ears separating strings of long, black hair. And then he sees the color of its skin. Green as swamp-water. His new cellmate appears to be a tiny, female goblin.

 

The goblin scans the cell warily for a moment before noticing him. She jumps backward away from him with a shriek and then hisses at him, baring her pointy teeth and narrowing her luminous eyes. She looks more terrified than fierce.

 

“Stay back! Stay away or I’ll... I’ll bite you or something!” He blinks, unsure of how to really react. Aren’t goblins supposed to be vicious and terrifying? This one reminds him more of an angry cat. He holds up his hands, a gesture of peace.

 

“Ah...  _ Hallo _ . I will not hurt you if you do not hurt me, I think.” he is too weak to put up much of a fight anyway.

 

The goblin relaxes a little, and blinks, “Oh. Well that’s fine then.” Her voice is scratchy and a little lower than he would expect for someone of her size. There is a silence between them as she settles in the corner opposite him, closer to the bucket than the pile of straw. “I’m Nott, by the way.”

 

His brow furrows with confusion, “Not what?”

 

“No, that’s my name. I’m Nott. Nott the Brave.”

 

“Oh. I am Caleb Widogast.” There was an old man who fixed farming equipment in Blumenthal named Caleb Widogast. He hopes the old man would not mind his borrowing the name.

 

“Nice to meet you I guess?” Caleb nods slowly in response. They fall into silence again. Caleb picks at the edge of his sleeve and Nott fiddles awkwardly with a hole in her pocket.

 

“So where are you from, then?” Nott asks, “I don’t recognize your accent.”

 

“The Zemni Fields. Up North.” He scratches at a scar on his wrist in an attempt to keep himself from falling back into his memories.

 

“Oh. I’ve never been there before. My clan is near Felderwind. Was. They move around a lot.” He considers her diminutive size and skittish demeanor. Nott strikes him as very young, but he isn’t sure how goblins age so he can’t say for sure. He wants to keep his mouth shut. If he asks too many questions then she will almost certainly reciprocate, but at the same time the curiosity is almost too much to bear. “How did you end up with a name like Nott the Brave?” 

 

Nott slumps a little, “Oh there’s no comma. It’s supposed to be ironic, I think. I’m not really brave or useful or anything, so they started calling me that as a joke and it kind of stuck.” her tone is so casual and matter-of-fact that he has a hard time processing the implications of this. But he can’t think of anything properly reassuring to say, so he says nothing instead.

 

After a while of silence, Caleb starts to fall back into his thoughts again. Except he can’t because Nott won’t stop  _ moving _ . She starts by tapping her feet rhythmlessly. Then she tries to scratch something into the walls, her claws making a horrible scraping noise against the cold stone. And then she starts pacing, wandering in circles with her sharp yellow eyes taking in every detail of the room. This makes it impossible for Caleb to sink back into his usual cycle of remembering every mistake he’s ever made and hating himself for them. Dull irritation scrapes at the back of his mind.

 

“Would you  _ stop  _ that?”

 

She stops abruptly and looks at him with confusion, “Stop what?”

 

“Stop  _ moving! _ ”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” She sits back down in her corner and stays quiet for less than a minute before she’s tapping her feet again. Caleb sighs. Apparently this is something he will have to get used to.

 

...

 

Exhaustion encroaches on him once again, but he is sharply aware of the virtual stranger sitting across from him who could very easily claw his throat out if he sleeps. Nott’s wide, yellow eyes are drooping and her frantic movements have slowed, but she seems to be in much the same position.

 

Caleb sighs, “Can we just agree not to kill each other in the middle of the night and go to sleep?”

 

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but she nods her agreement, “I guess.”

 

“Okay then. I am going to sleep now.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Good night?”

 

“ _ Guten nacht _ .” Caleb bundles up the straw as best as he can and lays down with his back against the wall. He closes his eyes.

 

Caleb’s dreams that night are not kind to him. Caleb remembers the face of every person he ever killed. All of the criminals and dissidents he tortured and executed without a second thought. Now, all of them stand before him with flames lapping at their feet. The cultist, the first person he tortured, speaks, but his voice is Ikithon’s and his eyes are honey-gold and triumphant. He recounts all of Caleb’s worst mistakes as his victims lurch closer, stretching out burning, grasping hands. If they burn they will take him with them and their voices are cacophonous and angry. He sees Eodwulf lying on the ground with white smoke curling from his unconscious body, about to be devoured by the flames but Caleb can’t move to help and so Eodwulf burns. The cultist laughs Ikithon’s harsh, cruel laugh as fire dances up his robes swallowing him until all Caleb can see is white smoke and honey colored eyes. Astrid doesn’t laugh, but she smiles sweetly at him as she offers him a goblet of water, and he immediately gulps it down, hoping that it will save him from the raging heat under his skin. Instead, he feels poison course through him as Astrid dissolves into ashes and Caleb is left alone with the encroaching flames and the grasping hands of the tortured dead, not knowing whether the flames or the dissidents or the poison will kill him first. And then, before he is really aware of it, he is awake with a small hand roughly shaking his shoulder and he rises to fight off his assailant, fire leaping to his blackening fingertips, but the firebolt goes wide and now he can hear a voice calling him,

 

“ _ Caleb _ ! Please! Stop! I’m not trying to hurt you!” 

 

The world is thrown into sharp clarity and he sees stony walls and a barred door and a tiny goblin cowering against the wall with her eyes squeezed shut and a black scorch mark on the wall next to her head. Caleb numbly lets his hand fall and crumples heavily back to the ground. He is shaking so much he can’t even breathe properly. He can’t seem to focus on anything except the panic clawing its way up his throat. Gods he could have  _ killed _ her.  He doesn’t even notice that he’s been scratching at his scars until he feels blood trickling down his forearms.

 

“Hey, stop that. You’re hurting yourself!” He deserves to hurt. He deserves every horrible thing that has ever happened to him. 

 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m still here, right? I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.” Nott’s voice is softer and suddenly closer than he is expecting. Small, green hands gently grasp his shaking, bleeding ones, stopping him from doing any further damage. A cool pressure leans into his side, soothing the heat under his skin. Nott mumbles soft, soothing words under her breath as she removes a strip of cloth from her tunic and gently wraps it around his wrists.

 

Why is she still here? She barely knows him and he tried to  _ burn _ her and instead of cowering in a corner or retaliating she is trying to comfort him? He doesn’t deserve to be comforted. He deserves to  _ burn _ like he tried to burn her, like he has burnt everyone who ever loved him. Why why  _ why _ ? 

 

He makes a weak attempt to pull away from her, he doesn’t need to burden a near stranger like this, but she holds tight, pulls him closer even. The coolness of her skin is a temptation he is too weak to resist, so he gives in and lets himself sink into her presence. He focuses distantly on her rough skin and leathery ears, her distinctive goblin-y smell and the greasy blackness of her hair and feels the sudden urge to run his hands through it. He starts to braid, the way his mother would braid bread every week. Nott tenses up when he first touches her head, but gradually relaxes as he works his clumsy fingers through her hair. They sit that way longer than even Caleb can keep track of, and while he doesn’t get any more sleep that night, the nightmares are more distant than usual. Caleb feels a strange, unfamiliar fondness for his new companion.

 

Conversation flows more smoothly between them the next day. Nott questions him incessantly, somehow managing to skirt around dangerous topics despite her seeming immaturity. She tells him little stories about life in her clan that she seems to find hilarious, but Caleb more often than not thinks they are a little strange, even concerning and it always seems like there is some strange context she’s holding back. He awkwardly offers stories from his village in return and tries to ignore the dull ache in his chest.

 

When night falls again, Caleb sends up a few dancing lights so he can still see her as they talk and she screeches and scrambles away from him.

 

“What’s that? Get it away from me!”

 

Caleb blinks, “They are just lights.”

 

Nott cautiously approaches one, squinting into the bright glow and reaching out to try and poke it. It doesn’t respond. “But... How did it get here? Where did it come from? What does it want?”

 

“I made it. With my magic.”

 

“You can do magic?”

 

“Ja. I am not very good though. I only recently picked it up again.” Nott glances back and forth between Caleb and the lights with an awed expression.

 

“Are you kidding? This is the best magic I’ve ever seen!”

 

Caleb chuckles humorlessly, “You must not have met many mages, then.”

 

“Well... there was one guy in my clan who could make fake noises and stuff, and a... guy in a nearby village who could make potions, but nothing like this!”

 

“Believe me, Nott, this is nothing very impressive.” Once, he could bend reality itself to his will.

 

“Well, I think it’s neat.” she huffs.

 

A moment passes, “I could teach you, maybe. If we could get the right components and such.”

 

“You could?”

 

“I don’t see why not.”

 

“That would be awesome! All I can do now is pick locks and get caught stealing things.”

 

Caleb hesitates, “Is that... How you got here?”

 

“Yeah.” Nott says grumpily, “I tried to steal a bottle of wine. And some other things.”

 

“I tried to steal some bread.”

 

Nott throws up her hands, “Ugh! It’s like they’re trying to make it illegal to  _ live _ !”

 

“To be fair, those things did belong to someone else.”

 

“Yeah, but I needed the wine more than some rich asshole who would’ve bought it. And I’ll bet you needed the bread more than whoever you stole that from! They don’t deserve it any more than we do! It’s not fair!”

 

“I have found that very little in life is fair,  _ Liebchen _ .”

 

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Fuck the Empire!”

 

Caleb almost laughs, “Fuck the Empire indeed.”

...

 

It takes another week or so for either of them to bring up the subject of escaping.

 

“How long do you think they’ll keep us here?” Nott wonders aloud.

 

“Until they get bored and decide to release us or make up their minds and execute us, I suppose.”

 

“Do you... If we really wanted to, do you think we could get out of here?”

 

Caleb has thought about escaping before, but he’s never had the courage to actually try anything. He doesn’t really have the skill either. Not without Nott, anyway. And would it even be worth it? Here, he is safer than he was outside. Life is more predictable. He knows exactly when and where he’ll get his food and where he’ll be sleeping every night. There’s no threat of accidentally running into one of Ikithon’s men. Why would he ever want to leave?

 

But at the same time, he has things he wants to do that he can’t accomplish in this cell. Being here is just so  _ limiting _ .  Perhaps an escape will be necessary after all.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Sure. With the right skills and the right plan, we could maybe pull it off.”

 

“I don’t suppose you happen to have anything that can just magic us away?” She wiggles her fingers exaggeratedly.

 

“Not really. I am not very good with magic.” If he had a spell book and a couple days, maybe. But his books are locked away far from him and he’s not even sure there were any spells that might be useful in this situation anyway.

 

“Well I’m really good at lockpicking and stuff but there’s no metal in here and the guards never have anything useful on them. All I’ve managed to steal is some buttons and a couple coppers so far.”

 

Nott fidgets with her clothes, looking almost guilty or ashamed, but Caleb isn’t sure why.

 

“Well, a couple of buttons and coppers could perhaps come in handy somehow?” He thinks for a moment, “If I could get you a wire or some such, do you think you could pick the lock, even from the inside?”

 

Nott perks up, “Definitely! Why? Do you have something?”

 

“No, but I think, if we are very careful, I could get it.”

 

“How?”

 

Caleb snaps his fingers and Frumpkin appears in a poof of smoke. Nott jumps back with a screech.

 

“What is that?”

 

“Shhh. Not so loud. This is my cat.”

 

Caleb runs his fingers through Frumpkin’s fur. He has missed his familiar, but had been too afraid to summon him in here in case he got hurt or taken away. Caleb didn’t have 10 gold worth in incense or a bronze brazier to spare.

 

Nott cocks her head, “How is a cat going to help us? All cats are good for is eating sometimes.”

 

“Frumpkin is a magic cat. I can send him outside of our cell to fetch a wire or something similar so that you can pick the lock and get us out of here.”

 

“Do you really think it would work, Caleb?”

 

“With the right timing, if everything goes well, I think so.” He doesn’t want to make any promises. He doesn’t want to give her false hope. He doesn’t want to fail her. At the same time he can’t stand being in this cell and doing nothing, making no progress toward his goals day after day. He wants to get out of here. He wants to get Nott out of here. “I can send Frumpkin tonight, if you want.”

 

Nott jumps up with renewed confidence, “Let’s do it!”

 

Their cell has no window, but Caleb can tell that the sun has set. He summons Frumpkin again with a snap of his fingers. Frumpkin purrs and winds around his legs and Caleb bends down to scratch his ears in return. Nott watches Frumpkin hungrily. Caleb decides that now would be a good time to get started.

 

Caleb gives the instructions to Frumpkin and then poofs and reappears him so that he is outside the cell, watching him trot off down the hall to search for a wire. Communicating with Frumpkin isn’t like communicating with words or actual speech. Its more like general impressions of emotions and intonation that Caleb actually finds to be an easier form of communication than talking most of the time. He watches through Frumpkins eyes until he moves out of range and Caleb is forced to just sit and wait and hope that nothing bad happens. What if this is all just a huge mistake?

 

A soft meow echoes through the jail as Frumpkin returns, proudly carrying a small piece of wire in his mouth. Caleb bends down to take the wire and poofs Frumpkin back to their side.

 

“Yes! Good kitty!” Nott screeches. She does an awkward half dance around the room. 

 

“Shhh!” Caleb peeks down the hallway, but the guard doesn’t appear to have been alerted.

 

“Sorry. Now what?” Nott asks in a still screechy whisper.

 

“Now you pick the lock and then I suppose we will need some sort of distraction to get out of here.” Caleb wishes he had spent more time planning. If he had spent more time planning before he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Caleb’s mind is spinning for a solution. What would make the guards leave with no questions asked?

 

Nott takes the wire from him and then stretches up on her toes to look at the lock. A few minutes of Nott being more focused and still than he has ever seen her and the lock clicks open.

 

“Keep the door closed,  _ Schatz _ . At least until I think of a way to get the guards to leave.”

 

The guards’ footsteps echo towards them, “Hey! What’s going on in there?” the torchlight gets closer. Panic rushes up Caleb’s spine and coils around his chest. He needs more  _ time _ . Why doesn’t he have more  _ time _ ? Before he’s even really aware of it, heat rushes down his arm and blackens his hand and the straw in the corner of the cell is on fire. He distantly hears Nott screech. The guard’s footsteps reach the cell. He yelps and then takes off back in the other direction. Caleb can’t take his eyes off the flames.

 

Nott tugs at his sleeve, “Hey! Caleb! The guard’s gone. We can leave now!” Caleb blinks away the brightness of his fire and follows her. They find their belongings in the guards’ room and then they are out of the jail, breathing in the night air. Nott laughs maniacally as they disappear into the woods, the smell of growth and dirt overtaking the smell of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter tbh. I love Nott so much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Caleb has a bad day and meets some interesting people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for minor injuries and a little bit of anxiety and PTSD.

Caleb wakes up shortly before noon and wonders for a moment why everything is so  _ bright _ before he looks over at Nott sleeping next to him on a slightly damp pile of pine needles and everything rushes back to him. Nott’s yellow eyes blink open.

 

“ _ Guten Morgen _ , Nott.”

 

She squints at him, “I forgot how bright the sun was. I don’t like it.”

 

“But it is good to be free again,  _ ja _ ?”

 

“Yeah sure I guess. Got any food?” She eyes Frumpkin hungrily and Caleb pulls the cat in closer to himself absentmindedly,

 

“I’ll see what I can scrape up.”

 

Once they’ve both eaten, Caleb begins to pack up their makeshift camp. Nott fiddles with her pile of pine needles and taps her foot.

 

“So... Is this where we leave each other?” her scratchy voice trembles slightly,

 

“I suppose, if you want.” Caleb feels strangely reluctant. He doesn’t really want to leave her, but he has things to do. He needs to keep moving.

 

“Well... Where are you heading next?”

 

“Away from here for a while just in case someone comes after us and then... Southwest, maybe? I have not really been in that area yet. Perhaps they will have some of the materials I am looking for.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Books, mostly.”

 

“Huh. Well I want to find some ale first thing. And then find some more shinies! The guards took all my best collections.” Nott narrows her eyes grumpily.

 

Caleb isn’t quite sure how to respond to that, “Those are admirable goals, I suppose.” He shoves the last of his supplies into his pack and then scoops up Frumpkin to drape him around his neck like a scarf. 

 

Nott looks even more fidgety than usual, somehow, “Can I come with you?”

 

Caleb blinks, taken aback. “ _ Was _ ?” Why anyone want to spend more time than they physically have to in his presence?

 

“I mean don’t feel obligated or anything but y’know I figure there’s safety in numbers and I can help you with any stealing or lockpicking or whatever and you can help me with magicky stuff and we can help each other and I promise I won’t be a burden or eat your cat or anything unless you let me and you don’t have to say yes but... Maybe we could make a good team? Just for a while?” Nott rambles. Caleb isn’t quite sure how to respond.

 

“There  _ is _ safety in numbers,  _ ja _ ?” Caleb says slowly, “Sure. Why not. Let’s travel together for a while.”

 

Nott mutters, “Oh thank god.” under her breath, which Caleb is pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, so he ignores it. “Southwest then, right?”

 

“Right.”

...

 

As it turns out, “A while” turns into days, which turns into weeks and then into months, past the point where he stops thinking of himself as “someone who used to be Bren” and starts thinking of himself as “Caleb.” Caleb and Nott do make a good team. Nott is small and sneaky. She has no difficulty squeezing into tight spaces, or darting through crowds, or slipping her hands into pockets, or picking locks. Caleb and Frumpkin are better at providing distractions and Caleb’s more practical spells and charisma help them get by. Occasionally, they can even afford to stay in an inn for a night, a luxury Caleb was never able to afford on his own. In fact, it feels like Nott is more useful than he is most of the time. As awed as she is by his magic, he is too weak nowadays to really be of much use while her skills are what allow them to survive.

 

They end up traversing most of the Empire, moving from one town to the next when they have what they need or the Crownsguard start to become too aware of their presence. They avoid the area around Felderwind because Nott’s clan usually wanders that area. Caleb doesn’t know the full extent of Nott’s experiences with her clan, but he gets the impression that she didn’t really part with them on good terms. They also stay away from Rexxentraum and other large population centers, just in case someone is still looking for Caleb.

 

Caleb hasn’t told Nott much about his life before meeting her, but he gets the impression that she understands because she doesn’t question that nearly as much as she questions nearly everything and everyone else. He appreciates this more than she probably realizes. 

 

And yet she can also be impulsive when forethought is needed, hyperactive when they need to stay unnoticed. She has a tendency to rush into things or lose all track of the plan when things start to go wrong. When she’s anxious, she drinks, and when she drinks she leaps straight past impulsive into reckless, which usually results in them being run out of town. She’ll choose the worst possible times to attempt pickpocketing or get careless and accidentally reveal her goblin status just in time to be noticed by a suspicious townsperson or Crownsguard.It’s almost like she sometimes forgets she’s a goblin. This frustrates Caleb endlessly.

 

He can’t really fault her, he supposes. The world is designed to work against goblins. And as paranoid and skittish as she can be, Caleb can be worse. The only difference is he keeps his emotions close to his chest as much as he can, while her anxiety explodes from her, present in her every movement. And, to a certain extent their paranoid instincts are what keep them alive.

 

Caleb really  _ can’t  _ fault her, he discovers as time goes on. He cares more and more about her every day and this terrifies him. He has burned everyone he has ever loved to ashes, and he doesn’t want the same to happen to her. At the same time, he  _ needs _ her. She is the only one who understands his oddities without asking questions, the only person with the skills to help him survive. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he doesn’t want to leave. So he stays. This doesn’t make him feel any less guilty about it.

 

There are a still a couple of close calls. They almost starve a few times. Nott actually does eat Frumpkin twice, but when Caleb manages to bring him back he seems to be in good humor about the whole thing. Occasionally, they run into a group of bandits or stray monsters that they have to fight off or persuade to leave them alone. When these encounters go badly and one of them is injured, they take care of each other. They can’t afford health potions, so bandages and whiskey have to do. They run scams together, Caleb using some new transmutation skills he’s picked up and Nott using sleight of hand tricks. Sometimes they’re successful, other times they go hungry or end up being chased down by the Crownguard. At the very least, they never end up in jail again.

 

...

 

Eventually, they wind up in a field near the Western border. Today... has not been a good day. Every noise from the rustling of the tall grass to the twittering birds is piercing. His clothes don’t feel right and his scars itch and his pack is too heavy and every color is louder than it should be. The approaching dusk is a welcome reprieve from the too-bright sun, but by this point Caleb is exhausted and his pounding headache doesn’t help much and he is past the point of being capable of conversation even though Nott keeps chattering mindlessly. They should really stop for the night. He’s too distracted by the sound of his own footsteps to notice the whistle of the crossbow bolt until it lodges itself in Caleb’s chest.

 

Nott whirls around and returns fire and Caleb hears a startled yelp from the tall grass as his vision becomes fogged over and he falls to the ground with a grunt. The last thing he is aware of is a series of cackling yelps and the drooling visage of a gnoll looming over him before his vision goes black.

 

Caleb awakens to the tingling sensation of a healing potion working its way through his system. He opens his eyes and sees a concerned, jittery Nott kneeling at his side, the empty bottle in her hands.

 

“Caleb! Are you okay? I managed to fight off the knolls but there were so many of them and you were really, really hurt and I thought you were going to die!”

 

Caleb coughs and sits up, his chest aching, “Sorry.  _ Ja _ .  _ Ja.  _ I am fine. Thank you. You saved my life.” 

 

She narrows her eyes, “You don’t look fine.”

 

He groans and gets to his feet, “I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

 

“We should stay in an inn tonight. I think we’re still near Trostenwald. We wanted to check out their Trosts, remember? And maybe try for something on that job board?”

 

“Well... We have some disposable income at the moment. I suppose it could not hurt.” In truth, Caleb needs a bed now more than he ever has in his life. He feels like sleeping and never getting out of bed again. Actually, he feels like he needs a bath. Sleep, then bath.

 

Trostenwald is the last mark of civilization before you hit the border, literally the furthest you can get from Rexxentraum without leaving the Empire. It’s a tiny, backwater town with only a small handful of people living in it: three breweries, two taverns, and a a couple dozen houses and shops to fill in the gaps. It doesn’t take Caleb and Nott long to find the Nestled Nook, the only inn in the town. 

 

Caleb mutters his way through an interaction with the innkeeper, too tired to put much effort into charisma, and manages to secure a room for the two of them. He collapses onto the bed, asleep before he can even take his coat off.

 

As Caleb wakes, the first thing he’s aware of is Nott’s weight curled half on top of his legs. He feels better than yesterday. The world is quieter and softer around the edges, lights gentle instead of painful and noises muffled instead of piercing. The only evidence of yesterday’s altercation is a small tear in his coat and some leftover bruises.

 

As he stirs, so does Nott. Her yellow eyes flicker over him with an expression halfway between relief and concern and a hint of her usual jitteriness. She comments on his piss-poor performance the previous day, but she doesn’t seem to blame him, so there’s that. He’s been asleep for almost an entire day, and in that time Nott has managed to steal some random trinkets, potentially reveal herself to the townspeople and even the Crownsguard, and drink enough that she reeks of alcohol despite the fact that she doesn’t appear to be drunk now. At least she’s safe, he supposes. He tells her to be a little more careful and ask for his help next time and leaves it at that.

 

At this point, the smell of breakfast drifting from downstairs becomes too appealing to resist, so they make their way to a table in the back corner of the inn to eat and make their plans for the day. Caleb notes a weathered, but pleasant enough looking man enter the inn and approach a table nearby, where three people are already sitting: an energetic, blue tiefling, a human in monk-ish robes, and a half-orc with a scarred face. 

 

“Are you guys staying here?” The tiefling asks with no prompting. Caleb is momentarily taken aback and Nott actually jumps mid-sentence. She continues to try and converse with them, dragging her two companions with her. Caleb would really rather be left alone. They are drawing too much attention and this girl is very loud and excitable and keeps insulting his lack of cleanliness and all Caleb wants is to take Nott and leave. But, for reasons beyond his comprehension, he stays. She introduces herself as Jester, and for some reason he gives her his name in return. The human woman (Beau) is blunt and a little on the surlier side. The half-orc (Fjord) is too polite to not be hiding something. 

 

The door to the tavern opens again, drawing Caleb’s wary attention and two more people enter. One is a lavender tiefling whose appearance is so loud it gives Caleb a headache. The tiefling flits from table to table with casual grace, draped in multicolored robes and dripping with jewelry. His companion almost overshadows him in both height and sheer presence: a pale, bulky woman with piercing eyes in two different colors and an enormous sword strapped to her back.  The duo approaches their table and Caleb tenses.

 

“Well! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a group of people more in need of a good time in my entire life.” The tiefling throws his hands down on the table with a toothy grin, his tail lashing playfully behind him.

Caleb has a feeling this is going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might update this again later once we get further into Caleb's character development in canon because it's really interesting to try and interpret events from his perspective, but until then, this is complete. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic or have any edits, suggestions, questions, constructive criticism, etc. This was a lot of fun to work on and I hope ya'll enjoyed it! Thank you for reading!


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